The Blind Boy
by ecb327
Summary: AU. Harry is autistic and goes to a special boarding school. John makes friends with a blind boy there. 25 drabbles of kidlock, retirementlock, and general Johnlock fluff and angst.


_1. _

Mum was crying. Harry wouldn't hug her. The doctors said she might, in time. She would be distant for a bit, they said. Autistic children were sometimes skittish, shying away from touch. When John was born, he wanted to be carried and kissed and soothed. Mum was alright with that, but the day Harry left she stopped holding him for awhile.

_2. _

They visited often. Every other weekend. John liked the special school. He was gentle with the deaf children, kind to the mentally delayed adults. But he missed having a playmate. Harry smiled at him once.

_3. _

He was eight when he met the boy. The blind boy with curly black hair and milky skin, who could tell things despite his handicap. Like how tall John was, and what he'd eaten for breakfast.

_4. _

"Are we friends?" asked the blind boy. John's sixteenth birthday. They sat in the cafeteria on uncomfortable plastic chairs. "Of course," said John. There had never been a doubt. The boy gave him a clumsy cupcake, icing sliding off the lopsided dome at the top. Strange, how the lad had deduced John's full name, yet John didn't know his. He licked frosting off his fingers. A smile snaked across the blind boy's face. 

_5._

His knees were drawn to his chest. "Don't leave," he whispered. "Please." John was eighteen: an adult. "Don't go away." Sherlock. A beautiful name for a beautiful boy. When John said this, Sherlock did not speak for the next ten minutes, was rendered speechless. "Don't leave me," he repeated now. John shut his eyes. Their legs were touching. 

_6._

Harry was lost. Mum stared at the fire with a gaunt, hollow expression. Snow came down hard outside. A glinting ornament shattered on the floor.

_7._

They discharged him, now that he was eighteen. He fibbed and said that Mycroft would take him in. The teachers believed him. He said he was going home. That part wasn't a lie. John was the only person who he had ever equated with home. And so he walked, a five hour trek filled with frightening noises and an indistinct hum in his mind palace. Nobody stopped for the strange man trudging down the side of the highway. They sped up when they saw his outstretched thumb. _Hurry before you feel guilty. _He tumbled into the bed and nestled his face in John's neck. John's fingers tangled in his hair. 

_8._

Eyes. He observed but did not see.

_9._

Twenty-one. Sherlock smelled the alcohol on John's breath. "You're drunk," he said firmly. John nodded. Later that night he held the doctor close, pressing tender kisses to his forehead, jawline, temple, until John's heavy lids fluttered shut. Eyelashes brushed the nape of his neck. Sherlock shivered. 

_10._

Hypersensitivity borne of blindness. Tactile, instinctively defensive. He wanted it, he insisted. John brushed his thumb gently across Sherlock's cheek. Tingles exploded everywhere at the touch. He closed the gap, taking John's lips between his own, felt the swelling as John's heartbeat thrummed. Every sensation magnified tenfold. His body, unaccustomed to physical intimacy, simultaneously balked and reared. Want, need, desire, fear. Hot. The way Sherlock's hands mapped every square inch of John's body was intoxicating. John slid his fingers under Sherlock's shirt, smoothing over the warm skin by his hipbone. 

_11._

Harry was sleeping on the front stoop. John carefully lifted her by the shoulders, carried her inside. She was tiny now. Mum shrieked the following morning, and Harry wanted banana pancakes. 

_12._

Fuzzy teeth, bad breath, worn boxers. All his. Sherlock had John memorized, the curve of his back, the contours of his wiry frame. "Mine," he whispered as John stirred beside him. Emotion, so strong that it physically ached. John smiled.

_13._

Sherlock felt the coffee table's glass border, cool against his shaking palm. John was angry, yelling. White noise filled his ears. Drowning. He hadn't known about Harry; he hadn't thought she would be so vacuous; she came to him and asked him, begged him, in puerile terms, to lend her money. He didn't know she would be gone. The floor vibrated. Earthquake? No. John slammed the door, gusts of air undulating from his coat as he spun it savagely around his shoulders and left.

_14._

Lost. Alone. Cold. Blindness was a blessing, sometimes. He felt and smelled and sensed, but he didn't need to see. And then he heard it. "Retard," hissed someone. He felt a hand, icy, viselike, clamp around his wrist. Heart raced. "Shouldn't be here," the voice snarled. "Look at me, you moron." He couldn't. A blade pressed suddenly against his neck. "Please," he whispered. It was midnight. An empty alleyway in the dark. He just wanted somewhere to be, he'd just needed a place to run. Nothing more. The man's breath was foul. 

_15._

John had not screamed since he was a baby and Harry, tantruming, bit him on the shoulder, breaking the skin and leaving a scar. He screamed now. He screamed and screamed and sprinted towards them. Wild, animalistic rage took over and he launched himself at the man, relishing the feel of convulsing throat muscles under his rigid hands. But then he saw Sherlock, white and bony and confused, slumped against the wall, and relinquished the attacker. "Sherlock," he whimpered, and folded the man into his arms. He trembled and shook for an hour. 

_16._

Harry turned up six months after her last disappearance. Disoriented and sopping wet. Mum sobbed. Sherlock could feel John's blame emanating from across the room. She was safe, though. John couldn't stay mad.

_17._

A year abroad. Twelve months of misery. Fifty-two weeks of torture. Sherlock could smell John's soap halfway across the terminal. 

_18._

"I love you." It was a low rumble, and tears filled Sherlock's unseeing eyes as he confessed. "My god," John said huskily, and sank inside the blind man.

_19._

_There's so much I need to say to you, so many reasons why ; You're the only one who really knew me at all._

_20._

The words fell out one night in front of television. Sherlock's feet on John's lap, fingers idly stroking his hair. There was no buildup. John just slipped his hand into Sherlock's and asked, "Marry me?" 

_21._

Jealousy hit Sherlock with a dull thud. Phil was good looking (he could feel the atmosphere shift, sensed heads turning), charismatic, and, most noticeably, not blind. John laughed and talked sports with his friend from uni as Sherlock fumed, then stalked off. John followed a few minutes later. Before the doctor could say a word, Sherlock was kissing him deeply, passionately, possessively. "What are you doing?" asked John, sounding cross, though he'd fisted Sherlock's shirt and was already tilting his head up for more. "Making a point," said Sherlock. 

_22._

"I do." The world consisted of John's callused fingers entwined in his. "I do." The world consisted of Sherlock's skin rubbing against his. "I now pronounce you..." The world consisted of this one kiss, and nothing else mattered, would ever matter. Afterwards, Harry came up and hugged both of them.

_23._

John tiptoed into the bedroom. Sherlock was sound asleep, their little girl buried beneath his slender hand. John caught his breath. 

_24._

Their daughter was beautiful. Sherlock felt her happiness. John admired her white dress, complimented her veil. They walked down the aisle, Sherlock never missing a beat, and gave her away together.

_25._

John is vision impaired now (cataracts and stubbornness, refusing treatment). Nursing home pamphlets appear under their door on a daily basis. It doesn't matter. They manage just fine. Sherlock loves the wrinkles on John's forehead, the aged softness of his skin. The slope of John's shoulder, as he rests his head on it. Sherlock loves John. And John... well. John. 

John will always love his blind boy.

_~fin~_


End file.
